


Can't show every card I'm holding

by secondshame



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-12
Updated: 2013-07-12
Packaged: 2017-12-19 07:31:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/881095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secondshame/pseuds/secondshame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the 2015/16 season, Liverpool are back in the Champions League and Real Sociedad have a new manager.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't show every card I'm holding

**Author's Note:**

> Also posted on Livejournal [HERE](http://secondshame.livejournal.com/1995.html).

Xabi gets his coaching badges quietly, without fanfare, in the winter of 2014. Diario Vasco runs a small piece on it—Xabi thinks they will probably report on the insignificant details of his life until the end of his career, if not longer—but for the most part he is just another player who might want to be a manager some day. He’s not even sure if he does; he’s always thought about leaving football for a while, if not forever, when the time comes. Maybe he’ll work on computers or in business. 

Then Real Sociedad asks him to return when his contract with Real Madrid ends, and they ask if he would be interested in the role of assistant coach, and something about that seems right so he accepts. When he’s presented at Anoeta, he pulls on the blue and white shirt he’s always half-hoped he’d get a chance to wear again (though the other half of him thinks, in a voice that sounds kind of like Jamie Carragher, that red would be a better colour for him) and is given what feels like a hero’s welcome for his return.

He meets with the manager every day during preseason, before and after training, to discuss tactics and their upcoming European campaign. They’ve been kept out of the Champions League by Valencia this year but Xabi thinks they have a good chance of making it far in the Europa League. 

He’s right, it turns out. They have a good season in the Spanish league. When Xabi tells his teammates, and then the media at a pre-match press conference, that he’ll be retiring at the end of the season, it’s only a few days after the team has beaten Atletico de Madrid, and they tie with Barcelona at the Camp Nou later that night. They perform equally well in Europe. Xabi is watching the quarterfinal match when Liverpool are knocked out by Leverkusen, and the camera pans across the field to Sami Hyypia giving Steven Gerrard a comforting hug at the end of the game. A few weeks later, it’s Sociedad who are eliminated by the German side in the semifinals. 

“Good luck in the final,” Xabi tells Sami, after going around to comfort his teammates. 

“Thank you,” Sami says. He looks around the field. “Your team played very well. I’ve always thought you would be a good manager.” 

Bayer Leverkusen goes on to beat Tottenham in extra time to win the Europa League. Real Sociedad finish third in the league, and Arrasate subs Xabi off in the 78th minute of his final game to thunderous applause. For the next twelve minutes, plus extra time, he is only a manager, no longer a player. Real Madrid beats Paris Saint-Germain in the Champions League final and Xabi is sending his former teammates congratulatory texts before Iker even gets his hands on the trophy. He wakes up the next morning to drunken voicemails from Raúl and Álvaro, and another six from Sergio Ramos. 

+

In June, Xabi gets a call from Sociedad’s chairman asking him to come in for a meeting. When he arrives, the board tells him that Arrasate wants to accept a position as manager of Bilbao and that he’s recommended Xabi to be his replacement. Xabi had planned to take some time off after his retirement, but once again, it seems right, even if it wasn’t part of the plan. He accepts. 

Xabi has never been afraid to ask for advice, so in the month before preseason begins Xabi talks to every other manager he knows, all the men he’s looked up to over the years. He begins with a long conversation with his father, then an equally long conversation with Arrasate. Denoueix, Del Bosque, Aragones, Pellegrini. He calls Carlo Ancelotti. He calls Jose Mourinho. He talks to Sami, Zidane, Xavi, every player he knows who has become a manager. He even sends Rafa an email. Xabi has always been thorough, and his preparation for the manager’s position is no different. 

Then he calls Liverpool. He’s never actually met Brendan Rogers, but he decides that he’d like to say hello, so he rings Melwood and they give him the information for the manager’s office. When the phone is answered, the voice is familiar.

“I heard you were working on your badges,” Xabi says. 

“From Sami?” Carra asks. “He called the other day, said you talked to him. Yeah, you know, not testing until the end of the year, but I’ll be with Rogers the second half of the season. I’m hear there’ll be another seat on the bench, if you want it.”

“I think I have my hands full enough,” Xabi says. “But if I decide to come back to England I will send you my CV.” 

“Do that,” Carra says. “Manchester’s got half their old group back by now, but I fancy our chances over the Nevilles and all. Especially if Stevie comes on. You’ve heard he’s hanging up his boots after this season, haven’t ya?” 

“Yes,” Xabi replies. Even though Steven is older than him, Xabi isn’t surprised that he is playing longer. He wonders what Liverpool will be like without Steven Gerrard on the squad. Xabi had known about Liverpool before he’d signed, of course, impossible not to be aware of one of the biggest clubs in Europe, but Steven had become so intrinsically linked to Liverpool for him, for everyone, that the team without its Captain Fantastic is strange to consider.

“Rogers isn’t in today,” Carra says, pulling Xabi out of his thoughts, “But I’ll tell him you called.” 

“Thank you,” Xabi says. “Excellent secretarial work.” 

“Fuck off,” Carra says. “And Alonso, keep in touch, mate. I don’t want to get all my news second hand from Sky and Sami.” 

“I will,” Xabi promises. 

\+ 

After the call to Liverpool, Xabi calls up Sociedad’s management and inquires into the process of setting up a friendly, He is told that there is still a possibility of being able to work something out with a more local club, but that a match with Liverpool would have required months more planning. Xabi knew this—he and Arrasate had organised their two upcoming preseason games against Swansea and Borussia Monchengladbach early in the spring, but he had thought it worth asking. 

Whether it is luck or fate, the lack of a preseason match between Real Sociedad and Liverpool does not mean that they do not meet before the year is out. Xabi watches the Champions League group stage draw in his office at the training ground: Real Sociedad, Marseille, Ajax, Liverpool. In mid-September, Marseille’s team travels to Amsterdam, and Liverpool comes to Donostia. 

Because he is busy with his own team, Xabi does not have the opportunity to talk to any of the Liverpool players before the match. He does, however, meet Brendan Rogers in person. Xabi tells him he is impressed by what he’s done with the team and Rogers implies that Carragher’s offer is a valid one, though not in so many words, should Xabi decide to return to England. 

Carra himself is not there, in London to work on his coaching badges, but when the teams line up for their pre-match handshake and then break up into formation, Xabi sees a few other familiar faces. Lucas is on the bench, and Xabi walks over to say hello. He recognises Suso from the selección. Most of the rest Xabi knows only from watching Liverpool’s matches on television. And then there’s Stevie, up on the edge of the circle, waiting for kickoff. Xabi watches him shifting back and forth on the balls of his feet, and when he glances over to the Sociedad bench Xabi catches his eye and gives him a small wave. Steven nods in acknowledgement and then the whistle blows and everyone redirects their attention to the match.

Liverpool wins. 2 to 1, and the second goal is a beautiful curling strike from Borini that, had it been against any other team, would have made Xabi stand up to cheer. Instead, he’s disappointed to record a loss in his first Champions League game as manager, even if he’s already marked down several wins in La Liga. 

Stevie plays all 90 minutes, although Xabi notices he is looking more and more tired as the game goes on. When the whistle blows he makes a beeline for the bench. Xabi is wearing a nice suit and Steven’s jersey is sticking to his skin with sweat, but Xabi lets Steven hug him and lets his body mould itself against Stevie’s, still familiar. 

“I’ll be back,” Stevie mutters in his ear, and goes off to talk to his teammates. In the meantime Xabi shakes Rogers’ hand, says hello to Lucas again, introduces himself to a few of the newer players, and gives his own team a quick talk before sending them to the dressing room. 

When most of the two teams have left the pitch, Steven approaches him again. “Look at you, lad,” he says, grinning. He reaches out and tugs the knot of Xabi’s tie, straightens it from where it had been knocked crooked by their hug. 

“When is your flight back to England?” Xabi asks.

“Seven tomorrow morning,” Stevie replies. 

“Are you hungry?” Xabi asks. 

“Starving,” Steven answers. “Give me a couple minutes to get out of this kit.” 

+

They meet again in an hour, after Stevie has showered and changed into jeans and a polo and Xabi has also traded his suit for more casual clothes. They go to a restaurant near La Concha, the beach in view below from the glass that takes up the entire wall of the restaurant. They make small talk only, small talk mostly about the leagues, both Spanish and English, and the upcoming international break in which England is scheduled to play against Spain.

“We never did play against each other,” Xabi muses. 

“If I saw you in a red kit I’d have forgotten and passed to you,” Stevie tells him.

“Better me than Frank Lampard,” Xabi says, and Stevie chuckles. Xabi’s left hand rests on the table and Stevie reaches over, brushes across the back of it with his knuckles. 

After dinner they walk down to the beach. It’s a cool night, though not quite cold, and when Stevie leans down at the water’s edge to dip his fingertips in the surf he shivers and quickly shakes his hand dry. The lights of the city are bright behind them but the beach is quiet, almost empty. Out in the bay La Perla is a dark shape against which the waves crash white spray onto the rocks at the island’s base.

“Carra said you’re thinking about managing in England,” Stevie says, sounding carefully casual.

“Maybe,” Xabi says. “Brendan Rogers said there may be a place.”

“That’d be brilliant,” Stevie says, turning away from the ocean to look at Xabi. Then he frowns, “But you wouldn’t want that, would you? Leaving Spain?” 

“I don’t know,” Xabi says. “There has not been an official offer, and this season I have to focus on my team anyway.” 

“Sounds like what you used to say when you were a player, too,” Stevie says. “I’m joking,” he adds when Xabi opens his mouth to protest. “Only, well, no, I’m not. But I’m not expecting you to give up first team manager to be an assistant. Not even for… for, er, Liverpool.” 

“I might,” Xabi says slowly. “This contract is only for a year and I have—“ he pauses and begins to walk along the shoreline, an Stevie falls into step beside him. “I have always wanted to come back to… Liverpool.” 

“You wouldn’t even have to manage our club,” Stevie says. “There’s always—“ he thinks for a moment, “well, City’s not too far, at least. Can’t have you at United or Everton, unless you want to get them relegated, in which case—only joking. Or a Championship side. Help them gain promotion. I know you like a challenge, Alonso.” 

“You could work in Spain,” Xabi says. He smiles to show he isn’t serious. It’s Liverpool or nothing for Steven, always has been. 

“I think we might have some trouble communicating,” Stevie says, “With the accent.” 

Xabi laughs. “Your accent and your terrible Spanish.” Then he says, serious now, “Can you wait a bit longer, Steven?” 

“I’m impatient, Xabi,” Steven replies. 

“I know,” Xabi says immediately, and Stevie cracks a smile at that. 

+

They’re silent for a while, walking around the curve of the beach, far enough along that Xabi can see the first of the Chillida sculptures jutting out of the rocks, the rusty red colour dark in the low light. He has the sudden urge to show them to Stevie, so he heads up one of the staircases, out of the sand and on to the higher path, and then to the end of the beach. The waves come up through the gaps in the rocks and shower them with a cold, fine mist. Xabi shakes his head and brushes water droplets out of his hair and beard.

“Hey, I remember these,” Steven says. He reaches out and runs a hand over the closest of the sculptures. “Did I ever tell you about that, when they took Michael and me down here with the team, back when we were kids? I must’ve done.”

“You’ve mentioned it, yes,” Xabi agrees.

“Figured,” Stevie says. He turns his back on Xabi and examines another one of the peinas del viento. When he speaks, the wind catches his breath and carries it away, and Xabi has to strain to hear. “Do you remember when we won the Champions League?” 

“Stevie,” Xabi says, taking a step toward him, speaking to his back. “That is something I could never, ever forget.” 

Stevie turns around. He slides his fingers up under Xabi’s belt and uses it to pull Xabi forward another step. “Good,” he says. He grins, looking past Xabi into the darkness like he’s remembering something, and then he meets Xabi’s eyes, says, “I want to kiss you again.” 

“I know,” Xabi says, and takes the last step necessary to meet him. It’s a quick kiss, longer than the one they had shared in front of seventy thousand people at the Atatürk Stadium, shorter than most of the ones that had come in between then and now, before Xabi had left for Madrid and they had decided it would be too difficult to continue, but it feels as familiar as ever regardless of anything else.

+

“Can you come back to my apartment?” Xabi asks. 

Stevie looks down at his watch. “I have to go to the hotel,” he says, “Early flight.” 

“We should not have bothered with eating,” Xabi says, frowning, and Stevie snorts with amusement.

“When you come to Liverpool in a few weeks we’ll skip supper,” he says, still laughing. “Hopefully we’ll both be qualified tor the knockout stage by then so it’ll just be for fun.” 

“Yes, that would be good” Xabi agrees.

They’re walking back toward the city now, along the path above the beach. There is the occasional person passing by them but nobody who pays any mind, so Xabi feels comfortable letting Steven’s hand find his wrist and rubbing the pad of his thumb over his palm, even if only for a few seconds. 

“You know they still love you at Liverpool,” Stevie says. “They’re going to sing your name when you come home.” 

“I still love them, too,” Xabi replies quietly, as they step off the beach path and onto a real sidewalk. Xabi hails a cab and tells the driver the name and address of the hotel knows the team will be staying at.

“Did you want to share it back?” Stevie asks, but Xabi shakes his head.

“I can walk from here,” he says. 

Stevie nods. He reaches with one hand like he’s going to touch Xabi’s face, then drops it lower and claps him on the shoulder instead. “Well, it was good to see you again, mate,” he says. His voice is thick, full of things he isn’t saying, or can’t bring himself to. 

“Vamos,” the cab driver says.

“Un momento,” Xabi tells him, his gaze not leaving Stevie’s face. “I’ll see you in Liverpool, Steven.”

“Take care, Xabi,” Stevie tells him, and gets in the cab. 

The car drives away, and Xabi walks home. 

It has started to rain. Xabi wonders if he ought to get used to it.


End file.
